


The Moon In My Mouth

by Eenna



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amorality, Attempted Murder, Fluffy, M/M, Psychopath Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eenna/pseuds/Eenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things to happen on a boring Wednesday evening, Peter waking up tied to a chair is not the most unusual. </p><p>But the kid in his home sure as hell is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moon In My Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> So, a little something to try and aleviate the feels I have for this pair. 
> 
> My lovely beta, [ Que](http://rantipolewritings.tumblr.com/)

Peter wakes up groggy. The world is moving in ways it really shouldn't and when he tries to steady himself, he realizes his hands are bound and he’s sitting in a chair. Not the most unusual way he’s woken up; some of his one night stands were on the freaky side.

But there's a kid sitting on a box across from where he's tied up. (Where did the box come from? Peter doesn't own one and he's still in his apartment. He'd be able to tell that couch apart anywhere.) And he's fidgeting.

While Peter could easily break the ropes apart—or just use his claws to cut through them—he is more curious about his situation. So he pretends to test out the ropes, and it proves to be more trouble pretending to stay tied up: the ropes have the shoddiest knot work. He's surprised they're still attached to him. But it's a wasted act. The kid’s more interested in watching himself twirl a knife. His skills are so bad Peter’s worried he’ll cut himself.

There's a nervous energy to him. He’s bouncing his knee and drumming his nails on the edge of the box. He also seems oblivious to the world.

Peter pointedly clears his throat.

One would think it was a gunshot with the way the boy startles. He almost falls off the box. (Seriously. Where'd the box come from.) He even manages to drop the knife before he could harm himself with it. It clutters on the linoleum of Peter’s living room. “Oh, you're awake.” It's high pitched and jittery. “That was quick. I thought I used the harder drugs. Must've grabbed the wrong syringe.”

“Must have.” Or he used the right drugs but Peter's werewolf metabolism burned through it like fire with gasoline. Not that Peter tells him that. At this point, he is just seriously amused. Was he supposed to get murdered? Of all the attempt on his life, this one’s by far the most entertaining and they haven't even started.

“Well, right.” He picks up the knife and immediately starts twirling it like he needs something to fidget with. “This is very awkward. You probably don't know who I am an—”

“You're the flower boy.” Now that the grogginess disappeared, Peter remembers the cute, fidgety, delivery boy that brought him an elaborate bouquet of petunias. It was the most unusual gift to receive by a middle aged man severely concerned with his privacy.

There's a beat of silence. “Right.” His eyes travel to the somewhat wilted vase on the dinner table. Peter preferred an open floor plan in his apartment. That's probably why he is tied up to one of the dinner chairs, in his living room. The boy gave himself a little shake as if he was distracted and now needs to focus. “But you don't know my name or anything. Which is good. Because most crime is committed against someone you know. And since you don't know me, I’m safe. Yea,” he nods to himself as if that made sense, “there.”

“And what crime is it you're committing?” Peter asks as if  he’s a teacher prompting a student for an answer and not the victim tied up in a chair.

“I'm gonna kill you.” He says it with such confidence Peter's a little surprised. Why is everyone trying to kill him around here? What has he done to people to warrant such threats? He's an outstanding citizen, thank you very much, extortion and blackmail notwithstanding.

Also, who the hell is this kid that can't even tie a proper knot?

“Right,” Peter deadpans.

“Yes! I've been planning it and everything.” His pulse is skyrocketing like he's drugged up on too much coffee, so Peter can't tell if he's serious. And he reeks of anxiety.

“Well, if you're so sure, can you tell me your name? It's not like I'll live long enough to tell it to the police because you _obviously_ know what you're doing.”

There's a buzzing and then a ringtone plays, interrupting their conversation. The kid startles, once again dropping the knife. He's so fidgety it takes him two tries to pull out his phone. And he answers it right there and then. How does this child survive out in the real world, Peter wonders.

“Yea?”

“Stiles?” Bingo. And it's not like Stiles would know Peter can hear both sides of the conversation. At least, nothing had hinted at the fact that Stiles is aware of Peter being anything but a normal human being.

“What up? I'm kinda busy over here—” Peter snorts. Stiles shoots him a dirty look. “—so whatever it is, can it wait?”

“Homework?” Jesus, another kid. And he sounds sympathetic, as if homework’s the worst thing that could happen. “I get it. Harris is killing me with it.”

“Yea,” Stiles lies, and just like Peter predicted, he can't tell because of Stiles’ rapid heartbeat. “So I'll talk to you tomorrow?”

“Sure. Just wanted to see if you'd come over for a round of COD. Guess you can't. Not like mom would let us play for more than an hour anyway.” He sighs.

They say their goodbyes. Stiles hangs up and pushes the phone back into his pocket.

“Your location services on?” Peter asks innocently. Therefore, he has the pleasure of seeing Stiles go pale.

“Shit.”

Peter is ready to mock him but bites it back when Stiles scent goes spicy with anger.

“Okay, enough talking.” He picks up the knife and advances. Peter would have been worried I'd he hadn't cut through the ropes a while ago. So when the kid comes within grabbing distance, Peter catches the wrist with the knife at the end of it, twists it and uses the kids own momentum to slam him to the floor face first. Predictably, Stiles yelps, drops the knife and falls like a sack of potatoes. Just to make sure he can't squirm out, Peter pins him with a knee on the lower back and hikes the kids arm higher up his back.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow. Ow! God, stop!”

“I don't know how to tell you this,” Peter drawls. “But I don't think you're killing anyone tonight.”

It's like the kid is incapable of staying still. He’s squirming, twisting and shaking in Peter's grasp. “It hurts, let me go!”

There isn't an ounce of fear on him. Pain, yes, and plenty of anxiety. Also, adrenaline and whatever the kid took to make him so fidgety. He can't smell anything but that doesn't mean he's wrong.

Apparently, no self preservation either.

“Here's the deal. You explain yourself and then we can forget this happened, or I can tie you up, stuff you into the trunk of my car and bury your body in the woods.”

“Or you could call the police like a. _Normal_. _Person_. Jesus.” He hasn't stopped squirming, and Peter's tired of holding him down. He didn't expect to be spending his Wednesday evening thwarting attacks on his life. Not that it was much of one.

“But then neither do I get my explanation.” Peter thinks for a little then reaches for the discarded rope. He loops Stiles wrists together, tightly, and uses the correct pattern of knots to make it unbreakable. “Has anyone ever told you how bad you are at this? You're gonna die much sooner than later with the way you're going.”

“Please. I know _exactly_ what I'm doing.”

“From where I'm standing—or kneeling, you know—you're not doing a very good job of showing that.” He hauls Stiles up and sits him in the chair. Stiles’ cheeks are flushed and he's vibrating with energy. If it were any other circumstance, Peter would have thought he's aroused. Or super, once in a lifetime, happy. Or insane. Peter’s thinking insane.

Stiles twists his wrists and when finds there's no give, he starts to panic. Peter can't tell right away because of all the purgent anxiety, but when he does, Stiles’ breathing is stuttering.

But within a moment it's gone. Like whiplash.

Kicking the dropped knife away from Stiles’ reach, Peter sits on the box in a reversal of their roles. (Seriously. Box.)

“Alright.” He crosses his legs and if there was a back, he'd be leaning against it: a picture of relaxation. “Why are you in my home?” And, wow, how hadn't Peter wondered yet about Stiles’ method of incapacitating him? Just how did this slip of a thing get the drop on him?

“To kill you.”

“Who sent you?” Cause whomever they are, they obviously hate Stiles.

But there's a confused frown on his face and for once, Peter can't tell if it's genuine or not. “What?” He tilts his head. “Wait. This happen to you often?” And he sounds so confused, the poor thing.

Peter sighs. “I guess we’ll have to take a little trip.”

“What? No!” Stiles jerks back when Peter leans forward. “We absolutely, irrevocably do _not_ need to take a trip, _anywhere_. I like this chair,” he shifts in it for emphasis, “and I would be heartbroken to part with it. There will be ugly tears and snot. Yea, lots of snot and slobber. And wailing. Plenty of wailing. Your neighbours will wonder and call the cops. Uh-hu. And Jesus, what did you do with the rope? It's cutting off the circulation in my hands.”

Peter has lost control of the situation. Stiles isn't exhibiting normal reactions to what could possibly be fatal situations. Peter’s starting to think that he might be harbouring a mental ward escapee.

Exasperated, Peter gets up. Stiles flinches, or twitches, or something. Maybe he's exhausted. There are rings under his eyes.

Peter shuffles over to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Stiles has to awkwardly crane his neck to see over the back of the chair, as if letting Peter out of his sight hasn't occurred to him. And Peter's still wondering about the lack of a fear response.

The silence only lasts thirty seconds before the foot tapping starts. The water boils and Stiles begin fidgeting in the chair. Peter just settles on a choice for tea (something relaxing, either chamomile or mint) when Stiles breaks. It takes less than five minutes.

“So,” he says, drawing out the ‘o’ at the end. “This is awkward.”

And annoying. But Peter is bursting with curiosity now. It's not like he’s killed anyone lately. Or threatened. He can't remember anything that suggested he’s on the chopping block.

Stiles hates the silence. “C’mon, man. My wrists are gonna fall off.” They aren't. Peter’s not an amateur, unlike someone else in the room. Stiles sighs when his little declaration earns no response, and turns back around. “This was not the way it’s supposed to go,” he mutters under his breath, heard only because of werewolf ears.

“You know what?” The kid’s getting angry. “I can also stay silent. See?” He purses his lips. Peter can see his reflection on the living room mirrors. It's dark outside.

Twenty seconds tick past. “Okay, well maybe not.” He shifts in the chair. “You're just so hot.” Peter wonders what his good looks have to with him getting murdered. Is Stiles one of those insane people that have to destroy things they find beautiful? Peter hopes not. “And you're also super rich.” So it's money? “And you do this thing where you charm people into them following your way and it's super attractive and slightly worrisome, but mostly super hot. And you're also super successful but you go such _unsavoury_ places…” Stiles lets out a frustrated breath. “It's unfair.”

Stiles is a stalker. Isn't that just wonderful.

“Not that I'm not flattered, kid—” Stiles rolls his eyes. “—but you have realize something. Murdering people you find confusing is not the way to get their attention.” Peter brings the cup to his lips and frowns when the heat burns his hands. Right, boiling water. Peter sets it back down. “And you still haven't explained yourself.”

“I think I did okay,” Stiles argues. “Confused kid goes after hot guy to kill him instead of sleep with him. A true psychopathic love story, cue romantic music.”

Peter smells blood. Stiles has chafed his wrists until the skin broke.

“If I'm following your train of logic, you're the confused kid that thinks he’s good enough to kill someone? You stink of anxiety and nervousness.”

“Oh, _that_. That's nothing.”

But Peter wasn't finished. “You're also abysmally bad at it. Has no one ever taught you to tie a knot? Did you skip Boy Scouts?”

“No, I just wasn't very good. Couldn't concentrate.”

“And what do you know about covering your tracks afterwards? For god's sake, you answered your phone, Stiles.” The kid goes still.

“H-How do you know my name?”

“Your hands are shaking so bad I don't even think you could accurately stab me. Your grip on the knife is dreadful. Frankly, I'm surprised you haven't cut yourself. You're leaving fingerprints all over the place. And now you're leaving blood. Tell me, do you even know how to dispose of a body?”

“Um, well, now that you mention it. I was gonna throw you into the lake,” he admits sheepishly.

“Do you know how to get blood out of the interior of a car?”

“I thought I'd stuff you into a couple of garbage bags.”

“Because that wouldn't be suspicious at all.”

There's a blush on Stiles’ cheeks. And he's finally quiet. Peter runs his fingers through his hair, yawning. It's late: middle of the night.

“What am I gonna do with you?” Peter wonders.

Stiles yelps. “Nothing! Let me go, maybe. A metaphorical slap on the wrist. Call the police, even though I'd prefer you didn't do that. Definitely not bury me out in the woods.”

“So that you could get yourself killed the next time you try this?” Peter twists his lips wryly.

“I'm not dead. Yet.” He grimaces. “That sounded bad.”

“It sounded like a foretelling of the future.”

Stiles brightens up like he just came up with the greatest idea, and suddenly Peter’s on edge. “Hey, maybe you could teach me!” He straightens his spine and twists in the chair to face Peter. “You know, how to murder people without getting caught. Like you did with that guy in the woods!” Stiles is practically bouncing. And the guy in the woods happened four months ago. Just how long has Stiles been following him around? How hadn't Peter noticed? “I was sure that was it for you. Caught and jailed! It showed up in the papers, even. Him missing that is.”

“I know.” Peter read those papers.

“So you'll teach me?” Stiles is like an eager, twitchy puppy. With big brown eyes and everything. And so young: fifteen or sixteen, tops. Corrupting the youth is one of his guilty pleasures, damn it.

“No.” Because the kid probably has a family that loves him and friends that worry about him and Peter doesn't want to mess with that. Well, he doesn't want to expand the energy it would require to make sure no one noticed.

“Oh, come on! I can be a perfect student!” he whined. “I'll listen to everything you'll say! I'll even take notes! And I _hate_ notes.”

Peter isn't amused anymore. Stiles is a witness to a crime; and even though he seems like the type to keep quiet about it, it's still a problem. So, really he has two options: kill the kid, or keep a close eye on him.

“It is much easier to kill you.” He made it sound flippant but Stiles would not be deterred.

“Woa, no.” He jumps off the chair and promptly trips, bound hands throwing off his equilibrium. “I thought we had a thing going with the back and forth, you can't just kill me! I'll be missed! My dad’s the Sheriff, he won't let my death go! You don't want that kind of attention.”

Peter takes a sip of his slightly cooled tea, and raises one eyebrow, unimpressed. Please, Peter’s a professional at making people disappear without a trace.

“Okay, well, maybe not. But I could be a good investment!” Stiles tugs on the rope, but it's holding strong. “Besides, I can help you out. Do the grunt work, or stuff you don't like doing. How about that?”

Peter pretends to think about it. “No.” Besides, the conversation has gone on long enough. Even though Peter doesn't know what he's gonna do with the kid yet, he'll figure it out later. When he's had a good night's sleep, unthreatened.

So he knocks Stiles out (who does not go out easy), puts him in a spare room for the time being, and thinks a devout puppy hanging on his every word might not actually be so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yea. Tell me how you like it?


End file.
